Let it Bleed
by Peregrine2
Summary: Sydney's post Counteragent musings on death and the business of moving on.


Let it Bleed-Sydney, PG-13

Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Post Counteragent musings on death and the business of moving on.

Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.

***** 

_Yeah, we all need someone we can bleed on_

_Yeah, and if you want it, baby, well you can bleed on me_

Let it Bleed, lyrics and music by Jagger and Richards

****** 

I do all these things. Travel around the world. Hang upside down on the side of buildings. Go ice fishing with me as the bait. And take baths in a vat of acid. My job takes me to the ends of the earth and back in time for my lit final.

You think it would prepare me for the worst. After all, I've been to hell and back. I've stared death in the face and won. Walls of water? No problem. Didn't even get my feet wet. Fortresses? Even easier. Walk in through the front door with a short skirt, falsies, and my usual blonde wig.

And then there's my dysfunctional family. How do you deal with a mother who's come back from the dead? Like a ghost of her former self, she floats around her cell with the effortless grace of a dancer, enigmatic smile flitting across her lips before she shutters her emotions behind those dark eyes I inherited. Lucky me. 

Moving right along, we have dear old Dad. The only parent I've ever known, someone I trusted implicitly. Thinking he knows what's best for me. Outmaneuvering me at every step, until the day he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Follow the crumbs and you find the mad bomber. On some level, I understand why he did it. Protection always comes with a price, but at what cost to my freedom? I live in a prison without walls, sharp edges cutting me from every direction.

They train us to be killers, to take a life with our bare hands. Countless, ingenious ways to murder our foes in ten easy steps. And the emotional fallout? Well, they talk about it, but nothing prepares you for the reality of taking someone down. Of seeing the light fade from their eyes as you extinguish that last spark of vitality.

_To be there when the door closes on him for the last time. Knowing you are responsible. That is something you never came close to considering before getting to know your mother._

Dad is right. I've killed in self defense, but I've never killed for my own selfish gain. Until now. 

***** 

Stare in the mirror long enough and you start to hallucinate. When I squint, I see her looking back at me. Dark eyes like bullet holes and that perpetual smirk. Am I seeing the future? Is this what I'll be in twenty years? A stone cold killer without a qualm in the world? Because I saw her take aim that day, and she did it without flinching. And she'd do it again in a heartbeat. 

So here I am, washing away the white paint and staring at my hands. Water running incessantly over my fingers as I try to scrub away my pain. But none of it works, because all I see is his blood on my hands. 

It should have been me behind that door. Not an innocent man who tagged along out of some misguided sense of honor and duty. Or was it something else? Did I imagine that note in his voice when he told me about his dad, or that gleam in his eyes when he shoved that guy in Taipei? And the way he clutched my hand that day in the hospital…telling me to be careful when he was the one at risk…how am I supposed to interpret that? 

Does his heart beat slightly faster when he sees me? And is that sweat I always see on his brow more than the warmth of a summer day? Because you never know. When you have these feelings, you start projecting them onto the object of your affection. And you start thinking that maybe that husky catch in his voice has nothing to do with the cold that's been making the rounds at the office.

So there we were, staring at each other through a wall of plastic. His eyes pleading with me, trying to tell me something, interrupted by the wail of monitors and the hushed voices of the nursing staff as they wheeled him away. And as I stood there helpless, I saw her in the distance. And part of me remembered the picture on his desk…pretty face, longer hair, happy smile…a stark contrast to the closed off woman in front of me.

_I'm Alice…. Michael's girlfriend…_

And I'm Rita. No, really I am. Maybe if I pretend long enough, I can morph myself into someone else. A person with a normal life and not some spy chica who kicks ass and takes names.

But squinting doesn't work, and when I open my eyes, I'm still me. 

****** 

_i grieve for you_   
_you leave me_   
_so hard to move on_   
_still loving what's gone_

I Grieve, lyrics by Peter Gabriel

****** 

The handover is quick and efficient. Bloodless. And I wish…no, I know that I need to see the lights go out to make it real. I can imagine so many scenarios, so many ways to snuff his life out, and I know Sark is the same. Only he's done it. Held the gun, pulled the trigger, and watched them die. 

Should I ask him what it's like? Or should I go closer to home and ask my mother? Would she answer honestly, or would she give me one of those half answers with a question at the end?

We're the same on the outside. The face in the mirror…is _hers_. Eyes, hair, and a pair of overly large hands. All identical. 

And on the inside, are we really so different? 

My cell phone chirps and I nearly gasp in relief at my father's news. "His blood levels are stabilizing. I'll call you when he comes out of it."

Will and Francie laugh in the background while I sit there staring at my mug. Stirring aimlessly, cocooned by my surreal bubble of denial. Will comes over and pats my arm, only knowing that Vaughn is sick and offering his silent support while tears drip down my face and fall into my coffee.

Kind, gentle Will. What did I do to deserve such a good friend? Because when you come down to it, I'm not worthy of him or anyone else. Whatever good I've done has been flushed, along with my sense of honor. I'm not only my worst enemy, I fear I'm becoming my mother.

***** 

Credit Dauphine moves by me at a snail's pace. Same hive of activity, same group of analysts talking in a dozen different languages, and Dixon's worried face as I pass his station.

My lips form a smile when someone greets me, but nothing can prepare me for the sight of his empty leather throne. The place where the hawk watched us all from his aerie, waiting to swoop down if one of us fucked up. 

Because we did. Again and again. And all of us paid the price for that wretched vigilance. And now? Save a life, take a life. What's the difference in the end? 

The Alliance will send someone from Internal Affairs, and they'll do an investigation. S.O.P. when someone is knocked off. I should be worried, but I can't find it in myself to care. I've been on the edge so many times that one more nail in my coffin won't matter. If their bullet has my name on it, then I'll gladly take my punishment.

Anything to save Vaughn. If my death means he'll live to see another day, then it will all be worth it to me. 

If they don't catch me, then life will go on as usual. They'll choose someone equally vile to take Sloane's place, and I'll hate them just the same. But never more than I hate myself right now.

***** 

Damn the man and his smug blue eyes, watching me while Sloane talks about our new partnership. The easy way he takes me in, sizing me up and down as he stands slightly back from his new employer, hands tucked neatly behind his back.

The hunter, seeking his prey. Seeing me as a likely ally, or is it his latest victim? I've heard his words and I know he wants me…God help him if he succeeds.

Look what happened to Danny. And see what Noah Hicks got for his troubles. And what about Michael Vaughn, lying silent and terribly white under layers of plasticine? The one man I can truly trust. Once he hears how I did it, he'll turn away from me too.

And then there is Sark. Overly young and terribly confident, with his silky accent and cosmopolitan airs. All surface polish and not much else. My mother's acolyte. 

Or is that me? Am I destined to take her place? Is that why Sark is here? To groom her successor?

We sit at the table and I lose myself in the comfort of words. Writing furiously while he lays down his life's work, pausing every so often to make sure I get it all. Patient, as killers often are. 

He mentions something about a wine bar and their marvelous Merlot and I cap my pen with a satisfying crack. "We're done here."

****** 

I find myself trembling at the sight of Vaughn. Shaking like an oak tree with an army of squirrels, my fingers dancing against my side as he stops in front of me.

He's glad to see me, there's no doubt about that. And that dangerous hint of attraction that I've started to recognize is also part of the mix. But it's also slightly awkward, and we both know why.

The first move is mine and I practically launch myself at him. So glad that he's here and alive in my arms. Not thinking about people watching or breaking protocol. No, not giving a damn about any of that. 

But he starts to stiffen, and I sense it's time to let go. And we swap another long stare before he brings up Sark. 

If he only knew…if I could only tell him what I see in my crystal ball. But no, I stick to the facts and we resume our roles like we were born to them. 

Just when I think I'm home free and might escape, he mentions Alice. And damn, there's a catch in his voice when he does it. 

Why does he do this? Why does he torture the two of us? Maybe he wants to free his guilty conscience. That's the easy explanation, but I've never thought of Vaughn as easy.

Complicated, fraught with emotion, overly anxious, but never easy. Because he's taken the hard road by following me. Risking his career, and his life, for my cause.

And my heart swells as he tries to explain, nearly stumbling over his words, thinking I deserve a reason for his wanting a normal life.

Who the hell can blame him? What could I ever offer him? Marriage, family, and a white picket fence? 

Not in this lifetime. 

So I put a stop to it. His pain is mine, and it tears at me as I force myself to walk away, every part of me screaming to stop and tell him how I really feel. Cheeks damp as I pick up my pace and soldier on. Pushing through the door to the outside, ready to face the usual foes. 

My mother. Sark. And my face in the mirror.

Fin


End file.
